


Zero Mission

by Rhagana_Doomslayer



Category: Black Widow (Movie 2020), Final Fantasy XIV, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, F/F, LGBTQ Themes, MCUxFFXIV, Past Child Abuse, ffxiv - Freeform, mcu - Freeform, trans woman character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhagana_Doomslayer/pseuds/Rhagana_Doomslayer
Summary: The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, is finally given her first assignment for SHIELD: to pose as a journalist writing a profile on the reclusive tech industrialists, Jason and Tabitha Wagner. Through her cover, she is to get close to the Wagners and their company to verify intel that they are building a weapon of mass destruction. If they are, she is to neutralize both the weapon and the Wagners.Aurora Anderson thought she got away from her adoptive parents, spending the last two years rebuilding what they all but destroyed. However, the Wagners crash into her new life to blackmail her into acting as their loving daughter for the sake of good press. But when she meets the journalist writing the profile on her family, Aurora finds herself attracted to the red head.As Natasha and Aurora grow closer, Natasha tries to keep her cover. While the truth of Aurora's origins begins to rise to the surface.Marvel and Square-Enix own the rights to Black Widow and Final Fantasy, respectively. This story and characters not created by either studio are my own work.
Relationships: Natasha Romanoff/Warrior of Light, Natasha Romanoff/trans woman OC, Natasha Romanoff/transfem!WoL, Natasha Romanov/fem!oc, Natasha Romanov/transfem!oc
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Discussion of suicide and trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

Natalia Romanova laid in bed, thinking about how she got in this mess. Well, she was being rather reckless, that was true. After the last few jobs she took, she managed to piss off SHIELD enough that they sent their best sharpshooter to take her out. Permanently. You’d think the United States’ super ultra secret service paramilitary group would understand a little espionage and assassination. All this, regardless of what side you were on, was just a job after all.

The job had gone south, real fast, and Clint Barton had showed up just in time to see how badly she can fuck up when she doesn’t give a shit. Yeah, she may turn her nose up at working literally any other job, but deep down she knew the work had become unfulfilling. 

She would never admit to herself that that was exactly why she threw the fight with Barton. She couldn’t place the exact moment when it happened, but the weight of her sins, and the blood on her hands, started to make her grasp on her mental health and her life difficult. Between being on the run from Mother Russia and the growing conscience in her head, she just couldn’t deal with it any more. Romanova was too proud to find a new line of work. It was a pride that had been beaten into her when she was a little girl. She would never admit to herself that she just wanted the pain to stop. Because she deserved the pain, didn’t she? Both for her sins, and because being the Black Widow meant incurring pain.

Romanova didn’t know what to expect when she silently surrendered to Barton, but mercy wasn’t it. Not only did Barton spare her life, he offered her a job. Which, as it turns out, wasn’t his call to make. And so, for the last two days, she sat in this dorm room at the Triskelion, SHIELD’s absolutely horrendous looking headquarters in Washington, DC. They kept her fed, clothed, and routinely checked on her injuries from her fight with Barton. All the while, any SHIELD agent that saw her bore daggers into her with their eyes. She was surprised no one had tried to kill her yet. Then again, from what she knew of SHIELD agents, most if not all of them were loyal to a fault when it came to the director himself, Nick Fury. So maybe none of them wanted to piss the man off by disregarding an order.

Sighing, she swung her legs off the bed and rested her elbows on her knees. Wincing, she rubbed the bandage wrapped around her left shoulder, where Hawkeye had landed an arrow.

The room itself wasn’t the worst she’s ever had to stay in, big enough to not make someone feel claustrophobic. There was a connected bath. Television and stereo. Of course, there was no internet or phone hook ups in the room. Yeah, she definitely has stayed and been held in worse.

Two days. God, she was bored. And lonely. Having no TV and no computer and definitely no sex was pushing her over the edge. She had blazed through the few books an agent was kind enough to lend her. Natalia could, if she really wanted to, escape, having already sussed out at least three - maybe four? - escape plans. Yet, she didn’t bother. She was curious about what the outcome of her being here would be.  
She doubts they would actually give her a place here at SHIELD. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted it. No, there were only four options. They would turn her over to the Attorney General, the International Court, Russia, or spare themselves the paperwork and just shoot her in the head and drop her into the Potomac.

The door opened, and in walked an agent Nat hadn’t seen before. “Who are you?”

The agent just stared down at Natalia, almost curling her lips in disgust. A faint betrayal of her attempt to remain stoic. “I’m Agent Melinda May. Director Fury would like to have a word.”

Nat let out a sigh. Finally, she thought. Romanova stretched out her arms, palms up, and waited for Agent May to cuff her.

In response, May just swung the door even more open, and nodded her head towards the open hallway, “Fury said handcuffs wouldn’t be necessary.”

“What if I-”

“Try to escape? Don’t bullshit me. You would have done so already.”

The Black Widow drops her arms and scoffs, “What if this was my plan?”

May huffed, almost smiling, “That’s why he sent me to get you and not that softhearted jackass, Barton.”

Romanova smirked. She decided she liked Agent Melinda May. Standing up, she nods, “Lead the way, Agent May.”

May leads Natalia at a brisk pace down the hallway, making several turns. Romanova couldn’t help but grimace at the ugly modernism of the building. Say what you will about the KGB or Russian government, at least there was some refinement in their government buildings. This place, with it’s chrome and beige, looked like an overpriced microwave oven. Nat looks over at the woman leading her along. All she sees is a slight smirk on May’s face, almost as if the agent agreed with the disgusted look the Black Widow gave the environment.

“So how long have you been with SHIELD,” Natalia asks, breaking the silence.

Pondering for a moment, May sighs, “Oh, about two years.”

Natalia cocks an eyebrow, “You don’t carry yourself like someone who’s been here for only two years.”

Laughing, May just shakes her head, “I get that a lot.”  
Finally, they arrive at the elevators, and May presses the UP button. Nat smiles, “Guess I don’t get two bullets in the back of the head today.”

“It’s still early, Widow,” May responds coldly. 

As the ride up to the top floor began, Romanova could only hang her head. At the end of this ride was the determination of her fate. Death, prison, or - worse - back to Russia. While she loved her homeland, the thought of being handed back to the government that broke and abused her as a child, to turn her into an efficient murderer, scared her even more than Hell itself. She could not see Fury - or anyone above him - being even remotely okay with making her a SHIELD agent, let alone a United States citizen.

Especially after all the Americans and SHIELD agents she’s killed over the years. A fact she’s reminded of as she and May exit the elevator and pass several agents. All of whom look like they had intimate thoughts of slitting the throat of the infamous Black Widow.

As May leads Natalia into Fury’s office, a slight panic begins to set in her chest. 

“Sir? I have your three o’clock,” May says nonchalantly as she holds open the door for Natalia.

And there he was. All six foot three of him, clad in a dark black turtleneck, dark black slacks, and somehow, a slightly darker black eyepatch. His signature trench coat hung on a peg behind his desk. The room was expansive, with a stellar view off DC and the river. Nat was impressed with him; she knew a lot of his exploits before and after he joined SHIELD. However, she knew that if she had to, there was no way he could take her in a fight.

The brunette in the SHIELD uniform to his left however, was another story. She had to be Maria Hill, Fury’s second in command. Romanova knew of several people who made the mistake of comparing her to Tony Stark’s Pepper Potts. All you had to do was get one look at Hill and realize how ignorant that thought was. Hill was more likely to tell Fury - respectfully - to get bent than to get him a coffee. As Natalia sized the pair up, she was keenly aware they were doing the same to her, the three of them letting an awkward silence stretch out between them.

Finally, Fury acknowledged May, “Thank you, Agent May. You better get back to Coulson before he worries himself into having kittens.”

May nods her head in agreement. Before leaving she gives Nat one last look. One that screams “do not try anything.”

Fury clapped his hands, rubbing them together, “Well, well, well. The infamous Black Widow. Here at SHIELD HQ on an invite of all things! Hill, can you believe that?”

Maria narrows her eyes at the assassin, “No, sir, I cannot. Especially after we told Barton to put an arrow between her eyes.”

The director laughs at Hill’s bluntness, taking his seat and motioning for Romanova to sit as well. “The stubborn bastard has brought us so many strays, we should dedicate a wing of the Triskelion as an orphanage in his name. ‘Barton’s Home For Wayward Murderers, Liars, and Thieves,’” Fury exclaims as he opens a rather large folder sitting in front of him.

As Nat sits down, she grimaces at the size of the folder, realizing it’s all about her. Even with her last few jobs gaining so much attention, there was no way SHIELD had that much on her. Right?

Catching on to what she must be thinking, Fury puts his hand on the papers, “Oh this? Yes, it is very much what you think it is, Miss Romanova.”

Natalia’s eyes go wide. The one thing no one outside of the Red Room knew was her name. How in the hell did -

“Hill, why don’t you give Miss Romanova and I some privacy.”

Hill was about to protest, however Fury just gave her a look and that kept her from saying anything. “Yes, sir. If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” Maria says, as she walks from Fury’s side. She gives Natalia the, “do not try anything,” look as she passes the red head. Romanova is too focused on the variables of her situation to notice. As the door gently closes, Fury takes in a deep breath, following it with a knowing sigh.

“I have spent the last couple of days, trying to figure out how this conversation was going to go. You’re what every intelligence agency in the world would call the ‘best get,’ whether it be getting you in their ranks, in a cell, or in a grave.” Fury purposefully let that last word hang as he studied the assassin sitting across from him. He still couldn’t believe what Barton had done. But now that Natalia Romanova was here, he was seeing what Barton had seen.

“How do you know-”

“Your real name,” Fury finishes for her. “Well, there was a time you were a myth. Or several women. Depends on who you ask. But I’m just going to say that you’re not the only Red Room graduate to have gotten out of Russia.”

Widow’s breath catches in her throat. She had heard rumors of course. But she always played them off as hopeful day dreams from those who couldn’t stomach what had been done to them in Russia’s spy program.

“Who?”

“Not at liberty to say.”

The Black Widow was never used to being in such a hot seat. Someone with full knowledge of not just who she really is, but of what she’s done. She couldn’t lie to this man. She couldn’t bat her eyelashes at him, play nice, or even flirt. She was really going to be executed for her sins. There was no way, absolutely none, that she was leaving this building in anything other than a body bag. Nat cleared her throat, unsure of how to proceed. A first, really. If flirting her way out wouldn’t work, murder always did. However, something in her gut told her to not murder this man. Romanova knew the tactical reasons why; she was on the top floor and would have to fight her way to the ground level. Yet, something else was nagging at her to play this out.

“So, you know everything. Who I am. What I’ve done. Surprised there're so many dead people behind such a pretty face, Director?”

Fury laughs, “You think you’re pretty?”

Natalia smirks, “I know I am.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. And I’ll be honest, you look gorgeous for a woman your age.”

Romanova had to laugh with Fury. Russia’s failed attempts to clone the super soldier serum that created both Captain America and the Red Skull. While she wasn’t nearly as strong as either of them, she had above human strength and speed, could recover from wounds a tad quicker, and was resistant to most toxins and diseases. And as near as she could tell, she became almost ageless, seemingly having stopped doing so when she hit her late twenties.

Fury cleared his throat as he studied Romanova, “So tell me, Natalia, you spent the first, what, 60 years of your life in relative obscurity? Doing the KGB’s dirty work. Killing and spying for Russia. Then what happened?”

Nat bit her lip. She hadn’t expected to be interrogated about her past. Well, her personal past. She fully expected to be grilled about her professional past. Maybe even tortured. She knew the Americans loved to use torture, especially in the name “freedom.” Not that she or Russia were any better. Romanova mulled the question in her head as Fury arched an eyebrow in expectation of her answer.

Leaning forward, Natalia looked Fury in the eye, “I didn’t like my bosses. They were dicks.”

Fury lets his jaw drop at the Russian’s deadpan delivery. He slowly starts to chuckle, before finally breaking into full tilt hysterical laughter. Nat chuckles lightly at her own joke.

“Shit, Romanova. That’s everyone’s boss. I even like my boss and I still think he’s a dick.”

After the pair stop laughing, a somber silence falls between them. Nat finally breaks it, done with twisting her head in knots over what awaited her at the end of this meeting, “Are you going to kill me, Nick?”

“Fury.”

“Pardon?”

“Everyone calls me Fury.”

A slight smirk perks up on Natalia’s lips, “Well then, Fury. Are you going to kill me?”

As good as Natalia was at hiding her emotions for the sake of the mission. As good as she was at keeping them suppressed to avoid being beaten or abused when she was a little child in the Red Room, she knew she couldn’t keep the pain from bubbling to the surface now. It was on her face, in her eyes, and in her voice. On display for Fury to judge her on and to find her weak.

The director leaned back in his chair. Pulling the bottom hem of his turtle neck down, “Is that what you want?”

Romanova blinked rapidly, desperate to keep tears from breaking free of her eyes. She could already tell her usually stoic body language had teetered into slight shudders. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Fury answered for her, “You think I should. You think it’s best for everyone, even yourself.”

All the redhead could do was look at her hands as they shook. Nat dug her fingers into her pants in a vain attempt to steady them.

“Barton didn’t want to say anything to you at the time, but the reason he wanted to bring you in is because he saw that look in your eyes. He played it off as wanting to get you to join SHIELD because of your skills. In truth, it was because of that same look you have on your face now. He saw it when you had surrendered,” Nick said in a very matter of fact tone.

Nat looked up, confused, “What?”

Cleaning his throat again, Fury stood up from his chair, “When I was in the Marines, there was this guy in my unit. He saw and did so much shit, it finally started getting to him. His ledger was red, soaked in blood, and he didn’t see how he could balance the books. He didn’t think suicide was the answer. I think he was Catholic?”

Fury came around the desk and kneeled beside Natalia. She turned to face him, asking him silently to continue, “So he thought that the only reasonable thing to do was to wade deep in it. Hoping that it would kill him. What he never stopped to consider was that suicide by someone else’s gun was still suicide.”

Swallowing hard, Natalia finally let herself be vulnerable as the tears started falling freely, though she kept herself from completely sobbing. “What happened to him?”

Sighing, Fury sat on his desk right in front of Natalia. Crossing his arms, his face betrayed an internal debate about whether or not he should tell her. “Well, that bullet never came and he was finally discharged. A year later, he died alone in his apartment. Overdose.”

Romanova bit her lip. This man, a complete stranger and until two days ago, an enemy, figured her out before she even could. Is that what she wanted? To die? It didn’t make any sense. Then again, neither did the jobs she had taken recently that she handled with all the grace of a sick albatross. Neither did throwing her fight with Barton. Did she lie to herself about the why? Maybe Barton didn’t want the win worse than Romanova. Maybe she did want to lose.

All Natalia could do was stare at the man. The implication was clear: she could be chasing an end forever and it could never come. And if it does, it could be an end not even worthy of the pain. Not that Natalia would do enough drugs to OD. She occasionally smoked weed, but could never bring herself to try or do anything else. The thought of trying to medicate the pain away with illicit drugs wasn’t an option. A narcotic oblivion would never do the Black Widow justice.

A silence falls between them, as both consider what is about to happen. Fury’s answer to her question - as well as his story - made it clear to Romanova that she had a choice to make. Which pushed Nat to ponder the ethical and moral bounds of assisted suicide. Because that’s what he was offering at the moment, wasn’t it? How morbid was she being right now, anyway? And no, she was not trying to get herself killed. Except, she knew Fury was right. He read her like a goddamn book. 

As if Fury had telepathy, he finally broke the quiet, “What I am offering you isn’t to help you kill yourself, Natalia. I have no plans to hand you back to Russia, either. Especially after learning all I did about their Red Room program. However.” Fury got up and walked around back to his chair. Once he sat down, he withdrew another, slightly slimmer, folder from the drawer. He plops it in front of her. He places his index finger under the name of whomever the folder belonged to. It read, “Natasha Romanoff.” Natalia quirked an inquisitive eyebrow. “An entire person, cooked up by SHIELD’s best. American citizenship, new ID, passport, birth certificate, credit history, the works.”

Romanova had to laugh at the Westernization of her name. She hesitantly took the folder and began to thumb through the documents. Outside of what Fury had mentioned, there was also a very detailed life history. Strangely, it still connected her to Russia and the KGB. But that made sense and was actually clever. It meant that she could keep her contacts from back home. Especially the ones that had no idea about her past.

She laughed again when she looked at the ID, “Date of birth, 1984. Guess I’m 21 again.”

She continues looking through the folder and finally comes across a SHIELD agent application form, already filled out with an agent badge clipped to it. Her head snaps up to Fury.

“The deal: you agree to defect to the US, spill some Russian state secrets and other intel, and you’re Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD,” Fury gestures to the folder in Natalia’s hands, “That has to be paid for, Romanoff,” he states. Using the name he’s offering her was an extremely manipulative tactic. “Join us. You’re one of the best spies in the world. Use your talents for good and maybe, just maybe, you can get that red out of your ledger. Become something better; let Natalia Romanova die quietly on paper.”

Romanova ponders the deal for a moment. “I have one condition,” she states flatly.

“Name it.”

“Code names. I’ve heard you’re very fond of them.”

Fury chuckles, “I am. What would yours be, Agent Romanoff?”

“Black Widow.”

The Director tilts his head, “I’m offering you a way out and a path to something better, Natasha.”

Black Widow looks back down at the papers that represent her new life. A new, empty ledger. Then she looks back up at Fury, right in his eye, a slight smirk turning the corner of her lip up, “You are. And I’m taking it. But I’ve killed a lot of people to get that title.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Hear_

_Feel_

_Think_

Aurora Anderson was floating. She wasn’t in space, nor was she in water. However, she knew whatever this place was, it was safe. It was home.

_Hear_

_Feel_

_Think_

Aurora opened her eyes to see a breathtaking void. Shimmering around her were countless dots of stars, strewn about in an infinite sea of dark and light hues of purple, blue, and white. As Aurora floated in this vast space, she felt as if she were wrapped in the world’s best blanket.

_Hear_

_Feel_

_Think_

As the disembodied woman’s voice continued, various silhouettes materialized in front of her. They were of numerous shapes and sizes, but all definitely humanoid. The silhouettes meant her no harm as they just stood there. They spoke to her in a whisper, even though she was too far away from them to make out exactly what they were saying. The shadows also spoke all at once, further making it impossible to distinguish between them and what they were saying. Aurora tried to swim her way to them, but it was as if she was treading air. She can flail her limbs, wriggle her body, yet she couldn’t advance to the group ahead of her.

She tried in vain struggling against the invisible force that kept her in place. She didn’t know for certain that these silhouettes were a threat. They made no move towards her, nor did they brandish any weapons. However, in her heart, she felt a kinship with them.

_Hear_

_Feel_

_Think_

The shadows continued to whisper and Aurora persisted in fighting the phantom grip on her body, a massive crystal rose up behind the shadows. Encircling it were fourteen smaller ones, spinning on their axes as they slowly rotated around the bigger crystal.

_Hear_

_Feel_

_Think_

The voice was coming from the crystal. A goddess? A fairy godmother? It also didn’t appear to be a threat. Aurora stopped fighting whatever was keeping her from moving towards the shadows as an overwhelming sense of awe and reverence washed over her at the sight of the monolithic object. Clearly, it - She? - was what kept Aurora at bay.

Without reason, the shadows began to bob their heads side to side in unison. Each nod timed with a beep. Aurora furrowed her brows, wondering what was happening with them. They kept beeping in unison as their annoying chorus grew louder and louder and-


	3. Chapter 3

Aurora’s eyes snapped open to her alarm clock screaming at her to wake up. Taking a deep breath, she let out an annoyed sigh as she slapped the thing quiet. Stretching her arms and arching her back, she got up and searched her side table for her dream journal. Finding it, she cracked it open to the next empty page. Because this dream happened so regularly, she took to just shorthanding the entry in her journal, only getting detailed if anything was significantly different. Which never happened. There were only about three variations of this dream.

Taking her pen, she was going to shorthand the entry yet again, however she became frustrated and just scrawled angrily on the page,  
" _Fucking crystal dream again! Who are they! What is that crystal! What am I supposed to hear, feel, and think!_ "

Slamming the book closed and tossing it onto the top of the side table, she flung herself back onto the bed. Small tears started to streak out of her eyes. There had to be a reason for the dreams. Sure, everyone could have repeats of what they see whenever they slept, however these happened so frequently and were so vivid that they had to be anything else but dreams. And they were beginning to happen more frequently.

The dreams started when she was young. At first, they happened sporadically, mixed in with other dreams. Dreams of a great warrior fighting an encroaching darkness. Dreams of another warrior fighting strange monsters, demons, and angels. Others yet of a warrior standing shoulder to shoulder with people, inspiring them to be their best and protect one another. Aurora always took the point of view of the warriors in these dreams, and despite what seemed to be major differences in time and place, she got the sense that these warriors were all the same person. One life stretching across time, defending a planet that clearly wasn’t Earth. The warrior and other people in the dreams weren’t always human, either. Various humanoid races graced her dreams. Elegant elves, lithe cat people, hulking brutes that were strong yet mirthful.

Aurora sighs as she lifts herself off the bed, shuffling into the bathroom to complete her morning hygiene routine. After drying herself off from the shower, she looked in the mirror. A dozen self deprecating thoughts begin racing through her mind, ranging from her weight to the fact she wasn’t a cis woman.

“Go away,” she angrily mutters, banishing the intrusive thoughts.

Her mind now clear, she straightened her back and appreciated her body. Aurora wasn’t vain, but she found that taking stock in the ways her body was pleasing to both her and her previous partners was a great way to knock back the dysphoria and sudden pot holes of self esteem. She had always owned her chubbiness; it helped to give her the curves she needed. 

Tying her purple hair back in a ponytail, Aurora made her way to the closet and dressers. After pulling out a black skater skirt, knee-highs, an Offspring band tee, underwear, and a pair of Vans, she got dressed. The great thing about dresses and skirts? She didn’t have to worry about tucking, which made getting ready a much quicker process. Once she had her outfit on, she did a little spinny-spin, giggling to herself.

Aurora went to close her bedroom window. Just as her hand grasped the handle, she stopped and embraced the cool breeze that pushed its way in. It was supposed to be another scorching hot day in Los Angeles, however the sun hadn’t risen yet to banish the cool desert air.

She closed her eyes, just taking in the temperature, causing goosebumps to perk up all over her exposed skin. Aurora always slept with the window open when there was cool enough weather. Somehow, like the dream of the giant crystal, cool breezes felt like a security blanket.

As the wind picked up, some loose papers on her desk rustled and the LGBTQ plus and Trans Pride flags that hung on her wall flapped slightly. Thankfully, the wind wasn’t strong enough to bother her Gundam models and Sailor Moon figures that lined small shelves on the wall.

Letting out a sigh of content, Aurora closed the window and made her way to the kitchen. As she crossed through the living room, she turned on the TV to catch the morning news. The morning crew of local KTTV11 came to life in the middle of a news story. Grabbing some Eggos out of the freezer, Aurora listened to the news and immediately rolled her eyes when she heard the name of her adoptive parents’ company, Triple Synthetics, Incorporated.

“In another attempt to forge a monopoly in the defense sector, TriSyn, Inc. has made yet another sizable offer to buy out both Hammer Industries and Stark Industries. So far, neither Justin Hammer nor Tony Stark has made a public comment of TriSyn’s offers-”

Aurora began to tune it out. Despite the frustrations over her dreams - and the very slight bout of dysphoria - she was in a good mood this morning. And the last thing she wanted was any kind of news about her parents ruining that.

Thankfully, the news finally moved on to entertainment, as the anchors got excited for the announcement of a new Simon Williams movie. Aurora felt her muscles relax and she slid four Eggos into the toaster. As she waited for them to pop up, she retrieved the jar of peanut butter from the cabinet and a knife from the flatware drawer. Turning to face the TV, she absent mindedly scraped peanut butter out of the jar and shoveled some into her mouth.

Her apartment was a small one bedroom, one bath. Bookcases lined almost every wall, containing collections of everything from actual books to nerd collectibles. There was one dedicated only to her tabletop games, and that was barely containing everything as it was. Any open space on the walls were peppered with photos of her friends, band, movie posters, or some kind of art. Items showing of her queer pride were everywhere, including two more flags in the living room.

Everyone she invited over made the assumption she had been living here for an incredibly long time to have collected all of this stuff. In truth, all of it was purchased over the last two years. A common excuse for every non-essential purchase was, “It’s retail therapy!”

Her friends always told her, “No. That’s not therapy.”

Her therapist always told her, “That is not healthy.”

Aurora knew, on a conceptual level, they were right. However, nothing could instill crumbs of serotonin more than impulse buying a new set of dice or an incredibly sapphic piece of art.

The Eggos finally popped up, and Aurora made quick work of spreading the peanut butter on them. She all but inhaled them. Everyone - including herself - often compared the way she ate and her appetite as something akin to an anime character.

She loaded up some more Eggos into the toaster as she began mentally running through her list of to-dos for the day. Aurora didn’t have too much time to dawdle, needing to get to work, make a ton of work calls, and get her boss to a couple of meetings. All of which had to be done before Aurora was due at her only class scheduled for the day. To say nothing of the handful of errands she had to run.

Oh, shit. Today was Friday. Which meant that she also had her weekly Dungeon and Dragons session at eight-thirty pm.

As her mind began to ramble on about the specifics of everything that had to be done today, the toaster dinged, launching up the new batch of Eggos. Making even quicker work of these, Aurora went back to the bathroom to apply a barebones amount of makeup. Grabbing the keys and her work bag, she left the apartment in a huff.

The rest of the frozen Eggos were forgotten to thaw out on the kitchen counter.


	4. Chapter 4

The traffic to work wasn’t as terrible as you would think for an early Friday morning. Sometimes, Los Angeles was blessed like that, and Aurora thanked whomever was up above for such an easy commute. This in turn, made the wait at Starbucks on her way more palatable.

As she rode the elevator to the top penthouse of the complex, she tapped her foot in a vain attempt to make the lift go faster. Too much shit to do today, she worriedly thought.

Finally, the elevator slowed to a stop, a soft ding sounding as the doors slid open. Aurora entered the antechamber. And like always, she pondered how no one in 2004 uses the word antechamber, unless you were a big nerd like Aurora and used it frequently while playing fantasy tabletop games. Like, this room wasn’t even called an antechamber on the building’s floor plan. Maybe she should bring it back?

Despite having a key to the penthouse, Aurora rang the buzzer. Holding the button down, she announced into the panel, “Good morning! It’s Aurora!”

Shortly after she took this job, she made the mistake of not making sure her boss was alone and accidentally walked in on her and some Calvin Klein model sexing each other on the couch. So every time she came over, she made sure to knock first.

Aurora really hoped her boss didn’t have a dude over. That would be another hour or so of time lost.

“Hey! It’s clear,” her boss exclaimed through the intercom

Letting out a sigh of relief, Aurora unlocked the door and entered the penthouse. “Thank god, because I do not need to see any man dick today,” she teased loudly.

The penthouse had an open floor for the living area, with no delineation between it and the kitchen and dining area. The entire wall opposite of where Aurora entered was nothing but floor to ceiling windows that wrapped around the entire penthouse. Which Aurora always steered clear from because of her debilitating fear of heights. It was one thing to ride an elevator up forty stories, another thing entirely to stand next to a pane of glass that could, in terrible theory, lead to a sheer drop to her death. This also meant that Aurora stayed off of the patio, which she hated herself for because that’s where the pool and hot tub were.

Making her way to the ridiculously large sectional couch, Aurora carefully set the Starbucks order on the coffee table, then plopped down and started pulling out her laptop and a notepad. After booting up, she launched the work calendar and set the machine on the coffee table.

“Man dick’s back on the menu, girls!” Aurora turned around to see her boss - and best friend - Josie Whittaker saunter down the stairs from the second floor.

Much like Aurora, Josie was wearing a comfy outfit - a baggy shirt that hung off one shoulder and a pair of jeans - and even less makeup than Aurora. Sometimes, being trans and having a cis woman for a best friend was annoying. Aurora loved Josie regardless, the pair being inseparable since middle school. Josie’s bothersome straightness balanced out Aurora’s obnoxious gayness when the two were together. Josie was the loud one who put herself out there, while Aurora was the quiet one who kept to herself at parties.

Aurora rolled her eyes at Josie’s abstraction of the line from The Two Towers, “Ew. No thanks. Girl dick or no dick.”

Josie laughed as she hopped over the back of the couch and settled right up to Aurora’s side, wrapping her arm around the other woman. Pulling her in even closer, Josie kissed the top of Aurora’s head.

“Too bad we have to agree to disagree on that,” Josie said plainly.

“You’d make a terrible lesbian anyway,” Aurora joked, sticking her tongue out.

“Probably. I can’t grip a bowling ball to save my life.”

Aurora just stares at her friend, unsure if she should laugh or cringe. “And you wonder why you can’t break into comedies,” she shot back.

Laughing, Josie unwrapped her arm from Aurora, and leaned forward to take one of the lattes and the paper bag full of breakfast pastries, “Did you eat already?”

Aurora took her latte, “Yup. That’s all for you.”

“The bestest friend and the bestest assistant,” Josie exclaimed as she pulled out a donut.

Aurora scoffed, “Really? After the last two years, I think it’s you who’s earned the bestest friend title.”

Just as Josie was about to take a bite of her donut, she lowered it away from her mouth, turning to look at Aurora. Pained seriousness washed over the brunette’s face, “You were missing for two years. There was no way in hell I was just gonna let you go after finding you at that party.”

Aurora smiled as she anxiously fiddled with her legal pad.

“I didn’t ask this at the time, but,” Josie began as she rotated herself to fully face her friend, “why didn’t you come to me and my parents when yours kicked you out?”

Closing her eyes, Aurora let out a sigh as the painful memory of the night she came out to her parents flooded her mind. “I was scared. I thought for sure they’d accept me. And when they didn’t, I just. I just couldn’t face anyone else and risk getting even more hurt.”

Aurora sniffles, attempting not to cry. She was failing as small tears began to fall from her eyes. Of all the things to happen today, she was not expecting to have a breakdown. Through therapy and sheer force of will, she had managed to get past what her parents did to her and the two years that followed. And for two years after that, she had managed to carve out a life for herself. Thanks, in no small part, to Josie.

However, even after all the healing she’s done, Aurora is reminded of the simple fact that trauma is a wound that can easily be reopened. Even unintentionally. As the tears come, Josie sets her breakfast down and pulls Aurora into her, cooing and whispering small affirmations and reassurances.

Eventually, Aurora manages to calm down and recompose herself. “Trauma is a bitch.”

Josie laughs, “No shit. Next you’re gonna tell me that water is wet.”

Aurora scoffs as she draws away from the brunette, “Anyway, we have work to do, right?”

“Yes,” Josie exclaims as she grabs her donut, “What’s first?”

Aurora looks at the calendar, “Well, a phone interview with KROQ radio in an hour. Then a production meeting at the Amblin lot. I think it’s gonna be a cold read of the script. After that, assuming you can make it out on time, brunch or lunch with the Maybelline rep. Then I have class at two thirty.”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t you also have your nerd night at that comic shop this evening?”

Aurora looked at Josie inquisitively, “Yes, tonight is a D and D night. But since when do you care about that?”

Shrugging, Josie takes a drink of her latte. “No reason,” the actress says innocently.

Aurora squints at Josie. “Jo. What are you planning?”

“Absolutely nothing you have to worry about.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I am soooooo sorry it's taken so long to get an update out. For some reason, finding this chapter's voice was hard, despite the fact that it doesn't even move the plot and is just more set up. Next chapter is gonna be focused on Natasha!
> 
> Also, thank you thank you thank you for 100+ reads! Y'all are amazing!

Aurora pulled into the alley, finding a space to park her Subaru Forester among the handful of cars. Afte parking and shutting off the engine, she lets out a ragged sigh. It was a long day, capped off by a pop quiz in her philosophy 102 class. She was confident that she aced it, but her mind-brain was so gone, she might as well have submitted a cactus for a grade. Sure, an actress’ itinerary doesn’t seem like a lot to do on most days, but when you’re responsible for making sure the star gets to where she needs to be - and on time - it was like herding cats in a category five hurricane.

While ice skating.

Up hill.

Then there were the personalities to deal with. Josie wasn’t a diva, but that didn’t stop others from being preening, self-satisfied clown shoes.

Take the DJ from this morning’s interview. Aurora spent about thirty minutes getting everything set up with the station. She spoke to the sound engineer for a sound check. Then the DJ, to just make sure certain topics were and weren’t covered.

When the interview started, he immediately started asking questions about Josie’s love life, one of the topics that was off the table. Jo, being the gracious woman she was, entertained a few questions and then politely asked to move on to her career and upcoming projects. Then, out of the blue, the DJ started asking very gross questions about Aurora, culminating in him asking why an actress that makes $10 million a picture would hire a tranny for an assistant.

That was when Jo lost it, and promptly chewed the DJ out for being a disgusting, transphobic asshole.

By the time she was done raving at the DJ, Josie must have racked up tens of thousands of dollars in fines from the Federal Communications Commission. Words like asshole and fuck twizzler were expensive no-no’s on live broadcasts. Josie didn’t care. Someone had hurt her friend - and by extension, other trans people - over the radio. She wasn’t going to let that stand.

Being clocked over the phone left Aurora with little mental energy to spare the Hollywood suits they still had meetings with. Let alone Philosophy 102.

After it was all said and done, she was sorely tempted to call her friends and cancel her appearance at game night. Yet, she hated letting them down. So she chugged a red bull, smoked a quick joint, and made the drive to The Kobold’s Sack Hobby and Comics Shop.

Getting out of her vehicle, she made a quick scan of the alley for any dangers. While this was one of the better alleys in L.A., it was still prudent for Aurora to ensure her personal safety. A lesson she sadly had to learn when she was sixteen.

Wait, was that Josie’s car?

Sure enough, the silver Audi belonged to Josie. Aurora recognized the license plate and the Social Distortion bumper sticker.

Retrieving her book bag and locking up the car, she darted into the comics shop through the rear entrance.

Aurora made her way through the stockroom, sidestepping neat piles of boxes and other retail accoutrements like shelves and cardboard standees. After that, it was navigating the rear of the sales floor, weaving in and around book shelves, display cases, and peg racks.

“Josie?”

Yup. There she was. Sitting at the table the owners always set up for the game. And in front of her was a brand new Dungeons and Dragons Player’s Guide, a dice set, and everything else a player would need. Everything was potentially purchased before Aurora arrived; some items were still in boxes or wrapped in plastic.

Aurora gave her friend the biggest of “what the fuck” looks ever. The most nerdy Jo got was about film making and theater. Not fantasy role playing games.

“Hey! About time you made it,” Josie greeted her.

“The fuck do you mean? I’m early by like, thirty minutes. And you’ve never even been here before,” Aurora countered as she took a seat for herself.

“What? You don’t want me here?”

Aurora shook her head, “I didn’t say that! It’s just, you’ve never expressed an interest in,” she gestures to the whole store, “this. Any of this.”

The actress just shrugs, “Hey, maybe I just want to spend time with my bestie and learn what she loves?”

Aurora narrows her eyes, “You once called role playing games, and I quote, ‘the modern chastity belt.’ Which is hilarious, because I’ve told you about all the women I’ve slept with who are into-”

“Chastity play,” Josie asks with a teasing tone as she wiggle her eyebrows at Aurora.

A straight face slips over Aurora. “Kal! Can we ban this harlot from the store,” she yells in a very serious tone.

“What? No. Why?” Kal, one of the owners, walks up to the table, balancing a stack of pizza boxes and carrying bags of two liters on his wrists. “Ladies, less fighting and more helping me with the food. Please?”

Both women oblige, taking the pizzas out of Kal’s hands and setting them on the table. Kal’s husband, Bruce, follows behind with the plates, napkins, and cups. “We’re not gonna ban anyone. Least of all Josie Fucking Whittaker,” Bruce states plainly.

“Besides,” Kal says as he removes the soda bottles from the bags, “she’s being honest.”

Aurora was at a complete loss for words. She has, on numerous occasions, tried to convince her friend to join in and learn how to play D and D. Jo loved films like Legend and The Lord of the Rings, making her aversion to role playing games a bit odd. The fantasy movies that Josie likes are only a stone’s toss away from these games. But Jo always turned down the offer, never wanting to be considered too much of a nerd.

“So why now,” Aurora asks.

“Well, you’ve been asking me forever and-”

“I know. So. Why. Now?”

Being asked in such a stern manner made Jo realize she’s in the hot seat. She watches as her best friend leans in, like an interrogator awaiting a reply.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just answer her, Jo, so we can move on,” Bruce demands.

Both women glare at the man for daring to get involved. Bruce throws up his hands in surrender, “Hey, we got a game to play and pizza to eat.”

Jo sighs, “I’ve always wanted to join you. But this was always your thing with friends you made while you were gone. I didn’t want to butt into that.”

Aurora was taken aback by what Josie had admitted.  
It was true, Kal and Bruce were very important to Aurora, having met them shortly after she was kicked out of her parents’ house. They couldn’t do much to help, but they did what they could, often letting her just hang out in the shop without buying anything, giving her cash or food. After the couple purchased the building outright, they even let her crash in the loft above the store.

However, they couldn’t let her live there. Two gay men owning a comic shop was still something the public didn’t like seeing, even now. Comics and games were perceived as “kids things” and unseemly accusations were always being stirred up about the two. So, letting a minor stay on their property proved somewhat of a risk. Regardless of her circumstances. Or the fact that the two men were upstanding citizens who worked hard for man activist causes.

Aurora frowned and took her friend’s hand, “And yet, I was still asking you, you dork.”

“Yeah, but,” Josie tried to explain, but her best friend raised a hand in protest.

“But what? Yes, these two and this store are important to me, but so are you. You know that.”

Jo shakes her head in agreement, offering Aurora a weak smile.

“Good,” Aurora says as she turns her attention to the pizza.

Bruce takes his seat at the head of the table, “By the way, Jo, have you figured out your character yet?”

“I haven’t. I think tonight I might just see you all play and figure it out for next time.”

Kal chuckles, “Don’t worry about it too much. Between your tastes and the fact that Bruce is an asshole who will try to kill your character, you’ll get plenty of chances to test different things out.”

Bruce scoffs as he sets up his dungeon master materials, “I only set out to kill a player’s character once. And that was because he was being a dick.”

Aurora hands Josie a plate with a few different slices on it, “Code of the group, whatever happens during an adventure stays at the table.”

As she takes the plate from her friend, Jo realizes how hungry she is. “Why,” she asks through a bite of pizza.

“Well, for example,” Kal smirks, “your best friend likes to flirt with dragons.”

“What?”

As that little factoid makes it out in the open, Aurora covers her face in embarrassment, “God damnit, Kal. I do not.”  
Bruce clucks his tongue, “No lying at the table.”

“Ari? Is it true,” Jo asks with an incredulous tone.

Kal laughs as Aurora’s face turns a bright red, the woman shrinking into herself. It was true, of course. And now, she realized there were consequences of inviting her straight-laced friend to hang out with her weird ass friends. As everyone around the table laughs at her expense, Aurora steals a small smile for herself.

Four years ago, her life was completely destroyed by the two people who were supposed to ensure that didn’t happen. Yet, in spite of that, Aurora had moved on, making a family for herself. One that accepted her and treated her as equal. Home wasn’t blood. Then again, Aurora was adopted. And maybe that’s why it was so easy for her to put that part of her life behind her.

Whoever her real parents were, they didn’t want her, or wanted her safe. The former made it hard, but also easy, to let go of anyone who didn’t love her. No sense in wasting energy on those who would do you harm. The latter, just meant that she was fulfilling her real parents’ wishes when the Wagners refused to. The fact she didn’t know who her parents were was irrelevant. She filled in the negative space with happy images that no one could possibly live up to.

However, these people around her did. Jo, Bruce, and Kal were her family now. The more time they spent together, the more the trauma of those two years becomes a distant memory. And maybe someday, she would just forget and truly move on.

Aurora slams her palms on the table. The action was so abrupt, it caught everyone’s attention, even the that of the players yet to come to the table. “Yes! Okay! I love dragons! I also love orcs, elves, tieflings, and any type of monster person! Show me a demoness, and I will flirt with her!”

Josie’s straight face shattered in hysterical laughter.

“What?”

“You? Flirt? Hon, no. You couldn’t flirt your way into a wet paper bag.”

Wide-eyed, Aurora scoffs, “You know my body count.”

Josie just rolls her eyes, “Yes, I do. I’ve even been there for a few of them. But your game is about as on point as a beach ball.”

Left speechless, all Aurora could do was stare at her friend, mouth agape.

“Oh, so that’s why she put her highest skill roll into charisma,” Bruce wonders out loud.

“Ah! So that’s where the fantasy aspect of this game comes in,” Jo exclaims.

Aurora hangs her head in her hands and rests her elbow on the table, “I hate. I hate all of you.”

Okay.

So maybe her family was secretly a small cadre of assholes. She still loved them.


	6. Chapter 6

It has been four months since Natalia Romanova died and Natasha Romanoff was born. Although this was a poetic metaphor, Fury went the extra mile, sending out a TELEX to all security agencies within the United States that the Black Widow was real. And that she was killed by new SHIELD Agent Romanoff. This was, in turn, irony. Many Red Room graduates tried to prove themselves by seeking Natasha out to prove they were the best the spy program had to offer.

Of course, all of them failed. A few of them died for their hubris.

This was contrary to how SHIELD agents thought of proving themselves. Sure, many wanted to be the best of the best of the best. Yet they didn’t try to kill each other for a promotion. Then again, these agents legally exist. Many had families, friends (both in and out of the agency), and a reason for being other than their duty as agents.

However, that was not the case for the Red Room and the KGB. The girls who were pushed through the Red Room had no legal documentation. They, legally, didn’t exist for the sake of plausible deniability. It also meant there was no history to come looking for any of them. “Natalia Romanova” wasn’t even the name Natasha’s parents gave her. If they gave one to her at all. This made every woman who came from the Red Room the perfect asset for the KGB.

If one of them died, the world lost nothing.

The culture shock was a sobering experience. Romanoff had value to something. All that mattered to the KGB was results. Here, if she was killed, she’d get her name on a grave marker. Maybe even be put up on the memorial wall.

Back in Russia, she would have been lucky to be buried at all.

But the culture shock didn’t end at morbid thoughts of what would happen in the event of her death. There were rules and regulations to learn, tests to take, and training exercises. SHIELD was a military branch as much as it was a security agency. She had a superior officer - Agent Phil Coulson - and he had an S.O.: Commander Maria Hill. There were chains of command and ranks. Or as they called them, levels. Level Ten was Director Fury and Nine was Commander Hill. Coulson was level Eight.

After a battery of exams and physical tests, Nat placed at Level Six.

These levels were based on performance and trustworthiness, as each level - while dedicated to certain aspects of SHIELD - meant more access to information.

Naturally, this meant that agents stopped hating her for being an assassin and started hating her for being granted Level Six right out of the gate.

However, as she continued to train and work alongside more and more people, that hate started to shift somewhat. Into what could best be described as mild annoyance. Coulson said to give it time. Barton said to ignore it. Tasha was just bored by all of it. In the KGB, there was none of this. Just you, your wits, and sometimes another agent to help with the mission.

The Black Widow now had to file paperwork to explain why she shot someone in the head instead of the throat. Why one building was destroyed instead of the other. Natasha was fairly confident she would have to write in some detail about why she fucked someone to ensure mission success.

Americans sure do love their bureaucracy.

Damn it, she was an American now.

But none of this had happened yet. As part of her deal to become an American and a SHIELD agent, she had to corroborate everything in that dossier Fury had on her. This meant she was restricted to the Triskelion until the debrief on her past was complete. Between reliving her past and being cooped up in the ugliest building in the world, she was sure she was going to kill someone for a gross, petty reason soon.

It would be over pudding from the cafeteria. She just knew it.

At least she now had a better bench to warm than the room they were holding her in those first couple of days. One perk of being Level Six was getting your own suite.

In the ugliest building in the universe. 

Still, she had her own space, as well as communication with the outside world. There were a handful of people Romanoff wanted to know that she was alive. Many of them contacts that would be a great boon to SHIELD. Most of them were happy she found a place to call home. 

Only two of them threatened to slit her throat if they ever saw her again.

“Hey, Romanoff! Wait up!!”

The assassin was pulled out of her thoughts just as Clint Barton jogged up to her.

If one thing had shocked Natasha about these past few months, it was her growing friendship with the man they call Hawkeye. Ever since he disobeyed his orders to kill the Black Widow, he had tried his hardest to get to know her. Romanoff knew she was standoffish. Betraying her emotions, even to friends, was a risk and a liability. Not making connections ensured that people couldn’t be used against her.

Yet the archer ignored her aloof demeanor and actively tried to befriend the Russian. At first, Tasha hated it. She didn’t have friends. Her head was complicated enough without adding someone’s baggage to the mix. But this blonde son of a bitch managed to weasel his way past her cool exterior. They would hang out after the end of the work day, sometimes just talking. Or they would compete against each other in the training room. He couldn’t match her in hand to hand, while he made her question her own marksmanship.

“What you got going on today, Red,” the sniper asks.

“On my way to debrief. I think it’s almost over,” she answers, hopeful to get out of this holding position and into actual work. “Are you still going to help me find a place in DC when they finally give me the greenlight?”

Barton nods his head and hums in the affirmative.

They walk along in a comfortable silence as Nat makes her way to the interrogation room the debrief is set to take place. They pass two SHIELD agents in the hallway. As soon as the two women see Romanoff and Barton, they turn to each other and whisper. Short burst of giggles escape the pair as they walk by.

Barton, turns his head to track the other agents, “What the hell is that about? It’s been happening for like, weeks now. Any time you and I are-”

“Everyone thinks we’re fucking, Barton.”

Hawkeye stops dead in his tracks, “I’m sorry. What?”

Romanoff shakes her head, chuckling at the dumbstruck agent. “Clint, if I’m not working out, running drills, eating, or holed up in an interrogation room with Coulson, I’m usually with you.” She turns on her heels to face him, “Hell, I even do those things with you a lot of the time, too.”

Scratching his head, the archer considers the facts and realizes how right she is. “Oh. Well. That’s just rude.”

Nat just shrugs, “I don’t get why people are so preoccupied with who is fucking who. Or why weird ass rumors start about people. Like that one about you creeping around in the vents. It makes no sense.”

“People just like to fill in what they don’t know with-”

“You’re too big for them,” Natasha states as she turns back to continue walking towards her destination.

If Clint was confused before, he was absolutely dumbstruck by what Romanoff just said. “What?”

“The vents,” she replied as if he should know that he wouldn’t fit in the HVAC system.

“Did you,” Barton starts, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer, “Have you been in the vents?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Widow tilts her head to the side, trying to see if her new friend - shit was he actually a friend? - wasn't taking her seriously. “Escape routes. Hiding spare ammo and weapons. Placing bug out bags here and there.” Romanoff turned back around and began walking again, “Seriously, Barton, I thought you were a pretty good spy. Are you telling me you haven’t done any emergency prepping?”

Barton covers his face with a hand, “Not in the most secure building in the world, no.” He follows the red head. “Anyway, you doing anything tonight? Figured we could hangout and I can embarrass you in the firing range again.”

“I already have plans.”

“Doing what,” he asks with an incredulous tone.

The world answered, as an agent appeared from around a corner and began heading towards them.

Nat smirks, “Not what. Who.”

“Agent Romanoff. Heading to that debrief,” the agent asks as stops in front of the pair.

“Why, yes I am Agent Fowler,” she replies, flirtation purring under her words.

“Farley,” he corrects her.

“Right, sorry,” laughing off her mistake, “I’ve met so many new people. It’s hard to keep track.”

“Well,” Agent Farley leans in, “I can’t wait to show you the rec room.” His voice is heavy with sexual intent.  
Barton pinches the bridge of his nose to keep his eyes grounded in their sockets. Farley doesn’t seem to care about Clint’s presence.

“And don’t worry, Natasha. I’ll bring my A game.” He gives Nat a not-so-discreet wink.

Tasha has to physically choke herself by swallowing air down her throat to keep from laughing at the man. Forcing a genuine smile, she shimmies her shoulders as if giddy at the idea of his A game. “I can’t wait,” she purrs.

The one night stand nods his head in approval and pushes past Clint. “Barton,” he states with all the subtle curtness of a brick.

“Farley.”

Once the agent is out of earshot, Nat finally lets loose a laugh deep from her stomach, “Oh. My. Fucking. God!”

“I think that’s the lowest you’ve ever swung for sex, Nat. He just assumed you haven’t made it to the Rec Room in the four months you’ve been here, didn’t he?”

“The jackass saw me in there on day two. Day. Two.” Widow covers her mouth, trying to keep herself from laughing even harder. After a solid minute, she manages to recompose herself, “So, you said the firing range?”

Barton laughs, “What about Farley?”

Romanoff rolls her eyes, “Do you think I could honestly spend an evening with a grown ass man that told me he was, ‘bringing his A game?’” The red head scoffs, “Any man that says something like that unironically probably lasts five minutes. Twenty tops with a half hour intermission.”

“Cruel but true,” Barton says in agreement. “But yeah, firing range.”

The pair begin walking again.

If one were to ask Natasha why she became friends with Barton, the first thing that would come to mind is how he didn’t judge her on pretty much anything. When he found out she was breaking the regs on fraternization, he didn’t chastise her. He didn’t slut shame her. Barton accepted Romanoff for who she was, not what - or who - she did.

This didn’t mean he would turn a blind eye to everything she ever did, and he told her that right from the start. He did have a sense of righteousness, after all. Barton understood that Romanoff was going through moral rehab, and took great pains to ensure her success. This meant being her friend and being someone that didn’t put her worst mistakes and choices in front of her.

He treated Romanoff as an equal and as someone of worth. Rare was the person who treated Nat like this. Barton knew the horrors she lived and caused in her long life, and didn’t hold any of it above her head.

So yes, he was a friend. Maybe even a best friend. Her best, only friend.

Maybe he didn’t have to be her only friend, though.

As the two enter an intersection of hallways, Barton puts a hand on Nat’s shoulder, “I’ll catch you later, then.”

Nat nods in response. “See you in a minute,” she smirks as they head their separate ways.

Reaching her destination, Natasha opens the door to interrogation room 2B. Inside, she finds her S.O. standing by the table, arranging his paperwork to get ready for what will be a draining and emotional debrief. She felt terrible for Coulson. No matter how awful the details of her past, however, he always gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Good morning, Agent Romanoff. Are you ready,” he asks as he clasps his hands in front of himself.

She steps inside, closing the door behind, “As ready as I can be, sir.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This and Chapter 8 deal heavily with internalized homophobia.

_ACAPULCO - JUNE, 1979_

Natalia sat in the dark winter home of some wealthy American family. Furniture was blanketed by white sheets, which were in turn covered by a thick layer of dust. Romanova had been an unknown and unwelcome guest of both the house and the county of Mexico for the last month. Normally, she would have been set up in a nice hotel, however the stability of the KGB - and the Soviet Union as a whole - was starting to falter. Numerous illegal residency agents had been found out by their assigned countries and arrested. The only agents the KGB could risk to find the security leaks were the women of the Red Room.

One of those leaks was a wannabe mafia boss named Alanzo Ricci.

Ricci fell in with the KGB as an informant in Italy. He was one of those men that seemed to know everyone, and the USSR paid him well for his services. However, he decided to become greedy and rolled the dice on playing multiple sides. Before anyone knew what he was doing, he had amassed a fortune that allowed him to build power and buy prestige.

Of course, when you get greedy in espionage, you will get burned.

Someone figured out that he wasn’t Italian and that his name certainly wasn’t Alanzo. He was a conman from America, with dreams of being a Don. Everyone and their mother was gunning for him, and the KGB was no different.

Unfortunately for Alanzo Whatever His Real Name Was, and the competition, the USSR sent the Black Widow to take him out.

Part of her mission was to get close to Alanzo before killing him. The KGB needed to know what intel he had on not just their operations, but their allies and enemies. Ricci had brought his family with him to Acapulco, lying to his wife and daughter about taking an extended vacation. They knew of his ambitions, but didn’t know that he had just pissed off the entire intelligence community.

Alanzo was too enamored by his wife to cheat. His wife was too stuck up to make friends with anyone who couldn’t immediately be identified as being upper class. That left their daughter, Adriana. She was sweet and caring, a complete contrast to her manipulative father and classist mother. Nat was able to befriend her her first day in the city. By the end of the first week, Adriana always wanted to be with Nat.

This made getting into the Ricci house a cake walk. However, between Adriana and Alanzo’s guards, it made investigating the house difficult. Romanova had too many close calls planting bugs or rifling through drawers.

Not that Natalia minded spending time with the young woman. A chaste kiss here, a promise of the world there. Adriana had fallen in love with Natalia. Given another week, she could get Adriana to do anything.

There was a problem, though. For Nat, the line was becoming blurry. She knew Adriana was nothing but a means to an end. Yet, every time she was with her, the Black Widow’s stomach twisted into knots.

Love was for children and a tool for adults.

Love was for children.

Love didn’t exist for Natalia.

Certainly not with another woman.

Women were not supposed to love women.

The Red Room taught her that, and the Red Room knew best.

But that didn’t stop the nightmare from coming back. The one that always came to her when she began questioning her sexuality. It came like a klaxon, warning her that she was betraying the morals of her organization.

She really did want to give Adriana the world.

Natalia shakes her head, trying to dislodge the conflict from her mind. She had a mission to complete. Romanova couldn’t risk her mind becoming clouded with thoughts of things never to be.

Tonight, while Adriana was out with friends, Natalia would slaughter her parents and anyone who stood in her way. No witnesses and a clean getaway. Adriana would come home sometime after midnight and find the carnage left in the Black Widow’s wake.

Adriana couldn’t be a witness if she wasn’t present for her parents’ murder. Romanova loved exploiting the holes in someone’s logic. Even if Adriana gave the local cops an accurate description, they would have trouble finding her, even if she stayed in the city. Bleaching her hair made her just another white woman in a sea of white women vacationing in Acapulco.

As Nat pumped herself up for the raid she was about to commence, she buried her emotions deep. She knew whatever she felt for the other woman was leading her to disobey her direct order to kill the whole family.

Weapons didn’t feel. Emotions were rust that ate into the viscous steel that was the Black Widow. 

Widow began a final weapons check. Her gauntlets were armed with her patented Widow Bites, darts that delivered an electric shock to the target. Her belt was loaded with a disc version of the Bites that packed a hell of a lot more stopping power. She had her twin Walther PP .35 pistols. Both were loaded and extra magazines were strapped to her belt as well. On the underside of her right gauntlet was a compact grapnel line that proved to be just as useful as her pistols. She loved using it in fights, because the last thing anyone expected was a hook to the face. And of course, a small dagger hidden in each boot.

Holstering her weapons, she looked out the large bay window of the living room. Up the very long street was the residence of her targets. The Ricci mansion was nestled into the hill, surrounded by dense foliage. Her route to ingress would take her out the back of the house she was squatting in, making her way through the thicket of trees until she looped up the hill and arrived behind their house.

Security should be minimal, in both number and competence.

The Widow followed her planned route. As she neared the back of the Ricci house, Natalia could make out two voices conversing by the pool. Finding a vantage point behind the fence that allowed her to view the yard as well as stay hidden, she cursed to herself.

She had anticipated at least two guards at the rear. There were four, two of which she’d never seen before. Alanzo must have strengthened his guard detail. Either someone tipped him off, or an agent from another country spooked him. Or worse, she slipped up and he knew she was coming for him.

Oh well. Just more dead bodies at the end of the night.

With the grace of a ballerina, Nat made the climb over the fence into the yard in one fluid move. Before leaving the shadows, she took two of the Bite discs from her belt and threw them at the guards. Electricity arced out of the discs, shocking all four men. Before the discs ran out of energy, she charged ahead, launching herself at two of them, landing a spinning heel kick to their faces. 

Falling into a crouching position, she withdrew one of her daggers and made for a third guard, jamming the blade up into the underside of his chin. Bloodied gurgling escaped his mouth as Natalia changed her grip on the blade and used her other hand to palm the top of his head. In violent quickness, she twists the guard’s head up, tearing the spinal cord.

Before the third guard collapsed, Widow used his weight to spin herself towards the last guard. Grasping his head in her thighs, she brings both of them down to the ground. A quick twist of her powerful legs snaps the guard’s neck.  
As Romanova began to raise herself up, she noticed several silhouettes appear on the other side of the sliding glass doors.

Natalia hears the faint clicks of about six firearms being readied.

Just before the first shot rang out, Nat dove to the right, breaking their line of sight and putting the outside wall between her and the next batch of guards. A consistent stream of bullets fly out of the door panels, shattering the glass.

They had automatic weapons.

They maintain fire for too long, wasting precious ammo and giving Widow time to fire her grapnel into a third story window. Just as the gauntlet pulls her into the air, heavy boots crunch over the broken glass. Before the men think to look up, Natalia is launched into the window, shattering it.

Rolling into cover behind a bed, Romanova takes a deep breath and draws her twin handguns. This was now a firefight and she had no doubt that Ricci was going to make a run for it. Before Nat moves from cover, she realizes how pink the room is.

This was Adriana’s room.

The memory of the last time she was in this room flashes in her mind. Natalia was on her knees at the edge of the bed that time, too. Between Adriana’s-

The Black Widow bites the inside of her cheek and steels her nerves for the continuing fight. She can already hear Alanzo screaming orders at his thugs. His wife was screaming for dear life. Movement in the large vanity mirror opposite the bed catches her eye. Two guards approaching the door from the left, stacked one in front of the other. They halt right at the door jamb, either too scared or too confused about how to proceed.

Wanting to test which, Nat takes the clock off the nightstand and hurls it through the door and into the wall in the hallway.

Both men jump and fire in the direction of the crash.

Scared it is.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Romanova creeps around the bed. She draws her guns on the men and squeezes the triggers. Both slump to the ground after taking a bullet to the back of the skull.

What’s worse than armature hour, Nat wonders to herself.

She exits the bedroom just as the Riccis exit theirs. The couple freeze at the top of the grand staircase when they recognize Natalia.

Alanzo points at the assassin, as if accusing her before his god, “You! You’re the whore that’s been fucking my daughter!”

Widow snarls and begins to stalk towards her prey.

Fearing for his life, but not his wife, he pushes the woman he supposedly loves at Nat and makes a break down the staircase.

“What-!”

Before Mrs. Ricci can finish asking what the fuck, Romanova puts two rounds in her head. Turning her attention to Alanzo, she waits for him to make it to the ground floor. Natalia mounts the banister, standing straight up on the railing without a hint of imbalance. Just before Mr. Ricci makes it to the front door, the Black Widow fires her grapnel, spearing the man right through his back.

He howls in pain as he struggles against the hook. Before anything untoward could happen, Nat jumps and lets the retractor pull her down to Alanzo, kicking him in the back and to the ground. Now on top of him, Widow grabs the grapnel and twists it into the man’s flesh. 

“It’s not nice to call a woman a whore, little man,” she growls.

“Fine,” Ricci hisses through clenched teeth, “How about dy-”

And like his wife before him, he doesn’t get to finish his last sentence. Romanova presses a gun to the back of his head. However, her anger at what the man was about to say pushes her and he gets four rounds in his brain.

Footsteps echo in the hall behind Natalia and she spins herself off of Ricci’s corpse, drawing out her second firearm. She takes aim as three more guards round a corner into the hall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter deals with internalized homophobia.

“Whoa! Whoa! Don’t shoot,” the one in the middle begs.

“Why not,” Nat demands with coldness in her voice.

The guard points to Ricci’s body, “That dick paid us shit. We don’t wanna die for that.”

None of them had their weapons drawn and their body language wasn’t aggressive. Still, Widow kept her weapons trained on them, “Are there more of you?”

“A few already fled. Look, if you’re worried they’re gonna get the cops here, I doubt it.”

The one doing all the talking inches a bit closer. “Hey, listen,” he begins, “I have the combo to the safe. Alanzo has a huge bag of cash and his old lady’s jewelry in there. We were gonna give ourselves a separation bonus.” He puts a big hint on the end of his sentence. If Nat lets them go, she could get a cut.

She smirks at him. A cash bonus and she didn’t have to crack the safe? Today might as well be her birthday.

“What? No way,” one of the other now-unemployed guards protested.

And all three began to bicker about their three way cut becoming a four way split.

Without warning, Nat shoots the two who were not useful to her. “There. It’s settled.”

The last man standing laughs, “Holy fuck, a fifty-fifty split? Girl, you are amazing.”

In no time, they were in the master bedroom with the safe opened and emptied. Sure enough, there was a ridiculous amount of cash and jewelry inside. As well as the intel Romanova needed to complete her mission.

She was grateful that Ricci not only employed such rabble, but was also such a shitty boss that his men were planning to kill him themselves.

Small miracles indeed.

“So,” the man drawls, “Name’s Donovan. What’s yours?”

In reply, Widow shoots him in the head. “Not interested.”

Gathering up the valuables and the intel into a duffel, she heads back to the ground floor.

As her feet leave the last step, the front doors swing open, revealing Adriana and her two bodyguards.

“Mom! Dad! I’m home!”

Before Adriana or her men can even register that Alanzo’s corpse is on the floor, Nat draws her weapons and opens fire, killing the two men. As the shots ring out, Adriana screams and she runs out of the house and into the night.

“Fuck,” Romanova hisses as she drops the the bag and chases after the woman.

Natalia exits the building just as a pair of heels hit her in the side of the head. She turns in their direction and catches sight of Adriana as she runs to a side gate at the edge of the mansion. Nat doubles back through the house and out onto the patio. She can just make out Adriana’s sobs and curses on the other side of the fence.

Nat was angry. Adriana wasn’t supposed to be home for another couple of hours. Why did she have to come back now? Of course, that wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Adriana would still be shattered at the loss of her family.

Making her way out of the backyard and into the woods, Nat had to wonder why Adriana was running into the woods. There wasn’t an easy path to anywhere opposite the mansion. And the only point of interest was a clearing at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the coast.

It didn’t matter. Even if Adriana was just trying to lose Natalia, the scared woman was making too much noise. Noise which told Romanova that her last target was heading towards the cliff.

Both women make it to the clearing one after the other. Adriana’s dress dirtied and tattered from falling down multiple times. Sweat glistens on her brow in the moonlight and her lungs heave in desperate grasps for air.

Romanova hadn’t even broken a sweat, in spite of her tac-suit and the hot summer air. “Adriana, please,” she begs.

Adriana whips around, anger beginning to seep out of her face, “Please what, Natty! You killed my parents, didn’t you,” she demanded.

The Black Widow cautiously stepped towards Adriana. For each step the Russian took forward, Adriana took a step back.

“I had a job to do,” Nat replied. Her voice cracked as the weight of emotion began to settle on her heart. As much as Natalia beat herself with what the Red Room taught her about love and emotions, this situation was why she planned the raid for when Adriana was out for the night. The assassin couldn’t bear this, no matter how cold she made her heart. She cared for the woman and had found joy in her company.

Without thinking, Nat reaches out and grabs Adriana, pulling her away from falling over the railing behind her and into the water below. It had to be a good two or three hundred foot drop.

Pulling her close, Romanova embraces Adriana. The woman begins sobbing into Nat’s shoulder.

“Please,” she begs, “Don’t kill me. I love you. Please, don’t do this.”

Romanova leans back and cups Adriana’s cheek. Slight tears trail from Nat’s eyes as she leans in and kisses Adriana. Adriana sobs into the kiss and she doesn’t notice where Nat’s free hand is.

Three quick gunshots pierce the quiet night.

Adriana clutches her abdomen as she rips herself away from Natalia. Pain, fear, and anger contort her face. “No. No. No. Natty, please,” she pleads for one final time.

Nat lays a trembling hand on the woman’s shoulder. In a split second, Widow regulates her breathing and drains all emotion from her face. “Love is for children, printessa.”

The Black Widow shoves Adriana over the railing and down to the dark water below.

Heading back to the mansion to recover the bag she dropped, Natalia pushed her remorse and self hate down as far as she could. She was whatever her country needed her to be. Anything else didn’t matter. Least of all love. And certainly not the kind of love that was blooming for the last month. But was it love? Did Natalia love Adriana back? No. She doesn’t. She couldn’t. Madame B taught her that love was nothing but a tool. Even a weapon, if necessary.

She was ordered to kill the Ricci family. Loving one of the targets betrayed her training, her agency, and her country.

Despite her rationalizations for killing Adriana, the tears didn’t stop that night.

_“Agent Romanoff?”_

Coulson’s voice snaps Natasha back to the present.

“Everything okay,” Coulson asks with professional concern.

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, sir,” she answers, painting her face with as much emotional camouflage as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI ALL!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I kind of lost some spoons and it took awhile to get them back.
> 
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this addition and THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE KUDOS AND READS! Oh. My. GAWDS y'all are awesome!
> 
> Next chapter, we'll finally be introduced to the bad buys and kick off the plot.

Later in the day, Romanoff found herself on a Quinjet with Barton, heading to somewhere he refused to tell her. Not only was it decided that today’s debrief was her last, but that she should take some time off. She tried to argue with Coulson and Fury that she didn’t need a vacation. However her two superiors and Barton browbeat her into taking two weeks off.

Vacation was a somewhat foreign concept to her. Sure, she got time off when she was in the KGB. But two weeks? Unheard of. You got more than a long weekend only if you were dead. Even when she was a freelancer, she kept the habit of being conservative with free time. It was pragmatic; too much time spent doing nothing with a carefree attitude could lead to atrophied skills. It also meant becoming lax with your surroundings, making it easier for someone to kill you while you were busy taking photos.

“Are we there yet,” Natasha asked, feigning disinterest.

“For the billionth time, no.”

Clint had become annoyed by this question. It was the only entertainment she had on this trip to Hawkeye Only Knows Where.

Nat shifted in the co-pilot’s seat, putting her legs up on the control panel, “We’re going to Vegas.”

“No.”

She knew they weren’t going to Vegas, but she kept insisting on it anyway. Between Clint’s pre-flight prep and the position of the sun, she knew they were heading south. Natasha prayed that her friend’s idea of fun wasn’t visiting some kitsch American tourist trap out in the middle of nowhere.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t care how American she had to be now, she would not visit the world’s largest ball of twine.

They had already been in the air for about an hour and a half. When she wasn’t trying to pester him, they continued their months-long argument over which was the better sport: American football or soccer. Clint was stubborn and kept repeating himself that any sport that regularly ends its matches in a tie were dull. While Widow countered that American football had all the grace of a drowning train car.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Clint huffed.

“It’s an apt description.”  
Barton just rolled his eyes, “Look, let’s just do an exchange. All right? I watch a game of soccer. You watch a game of football. We can finally put this to bed and stop arguing about it.”

Romanoff taps her index finger to her chin, “Alright. Fine.”

One of the lights on the panel in front of Clint lights up. Flicking some switches, he starts to descend. “Feet off the dash and put on your seatbelt. Time to land,” he orders with a smile.

Nat complies and straightens herself up in her seat. Looking out the window, she furrows her brow.

There’s nothing but farmland under the plane.

“Uh, Barton? What the fu-”

“Just trust me, okay? It’s a safe house. Sometimes.”

Romanoff’s head snaps to the left and she glares at Barton. “A safe house? In the middle of nowhere? That’s not anyone’s idea of a vacation, Birdboy.”

“Hawkeye.”

“Whatever.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Both of them chuckled. Feigning rudeness towards each other was something they started doing as their friendship grew. Clint’s dry playfulness contrasted well against Natasha’s blunt sarcasm. Nat didn’t trust him well enough to start having deep, personal conversations. However, she did trust him to not be mean. Though, she wondered how long until she entrusted him with the things she didn’t report in the months-long debrief.

And if she did, would their friendship end? She had been truthful to a point, giving Coulson just enough to corroborate the dossier SHIELD’s mysterious source compiled on her. Murder and mayhem in the name of the motherland was one thing. The sinew of her missions was another. The mental conditioning the Red Room used on her only excused her actions so far. Doing the right thing was a matter of circumstance, only superseded by the common law of man.

Thou shalt not kill.

Natasha was never a religious person, and her path to redemption wouldn’t lead her to a church. Yet the common law of man, the things that somehow everyone agreed were intrinsically wrong, were laws she had broken with abandon.

Clint knew she was a murderer in the name of the Soviet Union. How would he look at her if he knew she was ordered to kill her own sisters-in-arms?

If they were becoming as close as she feared, did she have the right to keep her secrets?

Did she even want to?

In the end, what did it matter? Clearing the red from her ledger wasn’t going to be a clean task. Not when it was being done at the behest of the United States. It wouldn’t be long until Clint Barton met the real Black Widow. The woman who was the best there was at what she did. The woman who was comfortable doing whatever it took to complete the mission.

She looked back at Clint, who was busy with landing the jet. He was a killer, too. If Natasha didn’t betray any weakness, he would have killed her four months ago. He spared a murderer to give her a second chance.

Letting out a quiet sigh, she turned her attention to the window, to the fast approaching ground.

What was redemption if all she did was change the flag she killed for. She didn’t know. Hopefully one day, she would have the answer.

Maybe Natasha’s new friend had the answer.

Moments later, Natasha and Clint were making the short trek from the dense thicket of trees he landed the Quinjet in, to the unassuming farm house.

Normal Rockwell fucked an American flag and produced this, Nat thought.

There was a barn to the right and the entire property was surrounded by fields for what seemed like thousands of kilometers. Fine, it was quaint. Impressive, even, for a safehouse. Though, where the hell was anyone supposed to run to if you were attacked here? Sure, you could see anyone coming, but you couldn’t lose-

Vacation. Right. Leave tactics in the jet.

Still. Hopefully this place has a small arsenal. Just in case.

“A safehouse,” she asks dryly.

“Sometimes.”

As they enter the house, Nat takes it all in. It’s a bit messy. Children’s toys strewn about on the floor. A couple hampers of clothes sat waiting to be tended to by the couch.

Toys?

What the fuck?

“Honey? I’m home,” Clint exclaims to the house.

A brunette wearing an apron rounds the corner from the kitchen. “Oh! There you are!” She embraces Clint and they exchange a tender kiss.

Natasha looks around, uncomfortable in not just the new setting, but seeing her friend kiss some woman she’s never met. It wasn’t jealousy, but annoyance. What else was he keeping from her? Sure, Nat wasn’t a complete open book, but the things Clint now knew about her was more than most got to know.

Clint Barton was married, with children. Nat scanned her surroundings again. Clothes, toys, and oh, look. Family photos. Rockwell would be proud. Fuck, there was an apple pie in the oven. An actual apple pie. It smelled good.

None of this family life was in Barton’s SHIELD jacket. His place of residence was listed as a one bedroom in DC. No immediate family. Not even a dog.

They were still kissing.

Romanoff clears her throat, interrupting the pair.

Both of them giggled as they separated their face holes from one another. They were still very much in love. Clint kept his wife tucked into his side, as they turned to face Natasha.

“Sorry, bet this is a bit of shock,” Clint said. 

“Only a little.” Natasha kept her sarcasm in check. She didn’t know this woman, but she was important to Clint. Last thing she wanted to do was upset either of them. Even though this was upsetting to Nat. She felt ambushed and betrayed.

Or was she just being a bitch about this.

Mrs. Barton extends a hand, “Nice to finally meet you, Natasha. I’m Laura.”

Laura’s smile was genuine, like she had been looking forward to meeting Natasha ever since her husband arrested her.

Nat took the hand that was offered and shook, “Nice to meet you, Laura.” She looks directly at Clint with accusations in her eyes, “I had no idea that you existed.”

Barton scratched the back of his head, “Uh, yeah. We asked Fury to keep my family out of my personnel files. He actually helped us buy this land.”

“So no one else at SHIELD knows.”

“Well, a few others know. Hill, Coulson, May. Oh! And Agent Morse. You haven’t met her yet, but Bobbi is amazing. You’ll love her.” Clint beams at the idea of Romanoff meeting this other woman. Turning to Laura again, he asks, “Hey, where are the kids?”

“Well, Cooper is in his room, down for a nap. As for Lila,” Laura trails off, humming while trying to determine where their daughter was.

The pitter-patter of tiny, bare feet on the hardwood floor made their way to the adults. Without warning, fat, tiny arms wrapped around Natasha’s calf. She looked down to find the missing Lila clinging to an assassin’s leg. The child laughed as if this was the funniest thing in the whole world. Lila looked up at Nat, a big, toothy grin spread across her face. Natasha had to scoff at the absurdity. An innocent kid, hugging her leg. Lila’s face unknowingly centimeters away from a concealed knife.

“Oh, sorry,” Laura apologizes as she picks Lila up. The little one refusing to let go.” Lila. Let go,” Laura demands. The infant complies, switching her hold from Nat’s leg to Laura's neck. “We don’t want to accidentally pull out Miss Romanoff’s knife, do we?”

The child is handed off to Clint, “Get your daughter to sleep. God knows I can’t today.”

“Oh, sure. When they’re causing trouble, they’re my kids.”

As Clint turns to take Lila to her room, Laura smacks his ass, “Maybe you should have thought about that before agreeing to marry me, Hawkeye.” Laura gestures to the stairs, “Come on, let’s get you settled in. Those Quinjets are never fun to travel in.”

The Black Widow just blinks. It clicked why he didn’t tell her until now. The Triskelion had ears everywhere. And the threat of those ears belonging to a potential threat was high.

Clint Barton was trusting her to know his most personal secret. The very thing he would die protecting or kill to protect. Natasha no longer felt ambushed or out of place. On the contrary, she felt honored. By inviting her into this sacred space, Hawkeye was telling her that he trusted her. Not just with this secret, but with the lives of his wife and children.  
Natasha wasn’t sure she was worthy of any of this. There was still too much blood on her hands to hold an innocent child, much less be in proximity to such a loving family. Her heart swelled just as it was crushed. In this moment, she was given an incredible gift of trust and companionship.

And it reminded her of everything she’s lost and could never have.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: CW: Transphobia from one of the bad guys happens in this chapter. It isn't extreme - or even directed right at Aurora - but it's there nonetheless.

Jason Wagner stood, one hand on a hip and his phone in the other. His face contorted in bitter frustration. His six foot frame towered over his desk. Jason is a man that cares about his appearance; he’s athletic and takes care of his body well. His blonde hair is shaved into a sharp high and tight.

Wagner paces back and forth behind his desk. A giant mahogany with intricate carvings and panels worked into it. The desk matches well with the rest of the spacious office, which hasn’t been changed since Jason took over Triple Synthetics when his father passed away.

And he would burn it all to ash if it meant he could get what he wanted. The owner and CEO of TriSyn Inc. had been on the phone for the last five minutes with Obadiah Stane, Stark Industries’ number two and direct line to the board of directors. Tony Stark was refusing to sell and Wagner hoped that speaking with Stane would lead to some kind of bypass. However, as Stane had told him again and again, even the board refused to sell or even negotiate some kind of merger.

If he weren’t so desperate, this wouldn’t bother him at all. He understood why they wouldn’t sell. Or, at least, he had an idea. Much like TriSyn, Stark Industries had been kept in the family for three generations. While SI had a board of directors and was publicly traded, TriSyn had a board, but kept its stock private, which made the company an absolute anomaly in the realm of big business.

Of course, the other anomaly was that TriSyn’s board wasn’t public knowledge. In truth, it was a secret cabal known as The Committee.

And they were not not happy with Jason Wagner.

In the twenty plus years since Jason took the reins of the company, he had not managed to deliver on anything that would be of value to The Committee. Sure, he kept the profits flowing, delivering the tried and true products to the public. Cash wasn’t an issue.

While Stark hoarded his artificial intelligence technology to create his sentimental and personal digital assistant, TriSyn cornered the market on both AI and virtual intelligence. TriSyn also continued its robust synthetic materials manufacturing. All in all, if you weren’t a super secret group of elites, TriSyn would be the furthest thing from disappointing, always being listed on Forbes 50 right along with Stark, Hammer, and Roxxon.

Yet here was one of the wealthiest men in the world, begging another for a scrap of attention.

It was fucking embarrassing.

In frustration, he kicked the waste basket under his desk.

“Come on, Obi. You got to give me something! Even just a twenty minute presentation. Anything,” Jason pleaded with the man on the other line.

On the other end, Obadiah chuckled, “Desperation is a stinky cologne, Jason. Maybe it’s SI who should buy out TriSyn.”

Jason clenched his fist and gripped the phone tighter. Stane was right, and Wagner hated him for it. “You come after my company and I’ll-”

“You'll do what,” Obadiah demanded, now past the point of being courteous. His raspy voice growled in anger, “You’ll piss on my rug? I don’t know where you get the balls making threats to me, boy, but you better get it through that fool skull of yours. The board? Won’t meet with you. Tony? Will never sell. And me? I am done with your horse shit. Make another overture of a buy out again and I will bury you!”

Before Jason can retort, Obadiah adds salt to the wound, “By the way, your old man? He’d be ashamed of you right now.”

Stane ends the call, leaving Jason without hope and his anger. In a rage, he picks up the entire desk phone and hurls it at the wall. It shatters on impact, right below an oil painting of his father, Tobias Wagner.

He runs his hands over his face and takes in the painting. That dark scowl on the old man’s face, judging Jason for failing the family and The Committee. Jason was tempted to tear the painting to shreds and burn it. He loved his father, but the bastard never fully explained how he was supposed to appease The Committee. Tobias always made it look so effortless. Of course, Tobias was much more of a scientist than Jason turned out to be.

Maybe that’s why the old man never told Jason how to manage it. Because there was never a chance in hell Jason could.

Everyone was expected to do their part for The Committee. As owner of TriSyn, it wasn’t enough to keep the group flushed with cash or even donate the materials and computer systems they developed. They needed other resources for their cause. And Jason Wagner hadn’t had an innovative idea since he took over the company. All he could do was iterate on what had come before, and no one was impressed by that.

Thank god TriSyn wasn’t publicly traded.

Jason flopped into his chair and slouched into it.

Trying to buy SI and Hammer Industries was a Hail Mary. He didn’t even care about getting his hands on Hammer. Their weapons systems were second rate to Stark’s and Justin was a used car salesman. At this point, anything to save his ass from The Committee was open for discussion.

On his desk, sat a picture of his wife, Tabitha. Jason gave the image a mournful look. He failed even her. In more than just business.

A knock at the office door draws Jason out of his morose thoughts, “Come in.”

The door cracked open, and a young woman poked her head into the office, “Mr. Wagner? Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Graff wishes to see you before he leaves for the day.”

Wagner regains his composure, sitting straight in his chair. He motions to his assistant, “Yes, yes. Send him in, Mia.”

Mia swings the door open and holds it. Spencer Graff, TriSyn’s chief financial officer, strides into the room, just like a goddamn peacock. A knowing smirk plastered on his pale face.

“Will that be all, sir,” Mia asks.

Her question was directed to Jason, but she was staring at Spencer as her cheeks became flushed with red. Wagner gritted his teeth. If she wasn’t such a good assistant, he’d fire her for even thinking of this asshole. It wasn’t jealousy; Wagner loved his wife. He just hated Graf that much.

“Just one more thing before you take off,” Jason asks, his voice tinged with sweetness, “Please bring me a new desk phone from the supply office. Just leave it on your desk and I’ll install it myself.”

Mia’s brow furrowed in confusion, not understanding why her boss needed a new phone. “Sure thing, boss. Have a good night, Mr. Wagner. Mr. Graff.”

Spencer tilts his head towards Mia, “Dear girl! How many times do I have to tell you? You may call me Spencer.”

Mia becomes a stuttering mess, unsure of how to respond to such a request. It irritated Jason to no end that Graff had not a care for formalities in the office. The bastard was unprofessional and probably a walking sexual harassment law suit waiting to happen.

“Ignore him, Mia. Just get me the phone and go home. Thank you.” Jason can’t help the curtness that drenched his voice as he spoke.

“Yes. Yes, sir. Good night.” She leaves, closing the door behind her.

Spencer turns back to Jason, “She’s just so delicious, isn’t she? Especially when she wears those pencil skirts?” Graff doesn’t bother waiting on an invitation to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He crosses his legs and tents his fingers as he gets comfortable. “I just wanted to check in, see how the call with Stane went.”

Relaxing his jaw so that he doesn’t crack any molars, Jason took in the sight before him. Spencer Graff was a pale mother fucker that towered over everyone, even Jason. Spencer’s build was that of a marathon runner. He was sleek and nimble. Despite being younger than Wagner, Spencer’s long, straight hair was silver. The one word everyone used to describe this corporate shark was beautiful.

If Graff wasn’t a subordinate of The Committee, Jason would have assumed he was just another sissified Hollywood pretty boy. However, Spencer’s looks belied a terrible, viscous wrath. He had done some wet work for cabal, the results of which would make even the most hardened of assassins gag. He was the group’s problem solver, which was why The Committee installed him as the new CFO for TriSyn three years ago.

Spencer Graff was the silent ticking clock, foreboding Wagner’s end.

Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and looked Graff right in his eyes, “It went like shit, but I’m assuming you already knew that, Graff.”

Spencer chuckles, smoothing out the lines of his expensive white suit, “That bad, huh? Well, it can’t be helped. Maybe instead of chasing after other people’s work, you put yourself back in that expensive lab and create something wonderful for our superiors.”

Wagner’s lips curl into a snarl. Two years of dealing with Spencer were all that he could bear.

Ignoring Jason’s anger, Graff continues, “I wonder who will take over after you? Hmm? It’s not like you have any heirs. At least, none that The Committee would accept. How is your daughter, by the way?”

Bursting to his feet, Jason slams his fist on the desk, “Don’t you dare bring up that freak in my presence!”

Spencer’s chuckles give way to full on laughter. It was bad enough that this asshole was Wagner’s second in command, and maybe even his future executioner. He could handle that. But the fact that Graff took great pleasure in being an unrepentant pest made everything so much worse. If Spencer wasn’t chiding Jason for being inferior to his father, he was outright insulting Jason for his inability to have children. And twisting that particular screw even more by bringing up that his adopted child turned out to be a degenerate.

Flipping on a dime, Spencer stopped laughing and became serious, “Time’s almost up, Wagner. You might want to get your affairs in order. The Committee grows tired of waiting. And so does my blade.” Spencer pushes himself out of the chair, dusting off his jacket, as if being in Jason’s presence has somehow sullied his clothes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am running late for a dinner date. Ciao!”

The CFO saunters out of the room, a satisfied smile spread across his face.

Despite his wealth and TriSyn’s continued success, Jason couldn’t help but feel as impotent in business as he was at home. He hung his head in shame as dark thoughts played out across his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, thank you so much for the reads and kudos!
> 
> I went back and made a slight edit to Chapters 7 and 8. The more and more I thought about it, the more I realized that the Red Room wouldn't be so directly homophobic as to ingrain it into their recruits. So I edited that out of Natasha's head. On the topic of edits, what I've published so far - and what's coming - is the first draft. Once this book is completed, I will be going back and making edits, and possibly putting the second draft up as a separate book for the benefit of current readers.
> 
> Thank you again! Stay safe and stay weird.


	11. Chapter 11

Spencer returns home to his lavish Beverly Hills mansion. Entering the foyer, he takes off his own jacket. The servants were already dismissed for the night and his guest was in the house waiting for him. Making his way to the drawing room, Graff enters to find Senator Alexander Pierce helping himself at the bar.

“Ah, there he is! Hydra’s prodigal son,” Pierce sets down the glass and bottle of whiskey he was about to pour.

Graff gives one of the heads of Hydra a genuine smile, “Sir, it’s always a pleasure.”

They embrace as brothers of a fraternity, exchanging Hail, Hydras as they do.

Pulling away, Pierce clasps both hands on Graff’s shoulders, “How has The Committee been treating you lately, son?”

Graff smirks. The Committee damn near treated him like royalty. He didn’t want for anything. Money, property, women, people to kill. However, he was frustrated. As much as he enjoyed the work and the rewards that were heaped upon him, he dreamed of something more. And The Committee seemed to be too busing spinning its wheels to deliver whatever it was that he was missing.

Hydra, on the other hand, was always expanding. Never just content with installing members in key positions in both the public and private sectors. Then there was the fact that Hydra had its talons in SHIELD. What was once a spin off project from a defunct United States Army operation, SHIELD had humble beginnings that were rocket propelled by Hydra to make it the most well-funded and most dangerous of the Alphabet Agencies.

And no one outside of Hydra knew. Well, except for The Committee and a couple of terrorist organizations.

The Committee hoarded tech just like Hydra, but the group behind TriSyn wasted so much time on recruiting internet trolls, local law enforcement, and crackpot militia types to its ranks. Despite demanding that Jason Wagner deliver some kind of weapon of mass destruction or control, there didn’t seem to be any plan on what to do with it.

It almost made Spencer feel sorry for Jason.

Almost.

“They treat me better than most, sir. But let’s talk over dinner. Don’t want our steaks getting cold.”

Pierce chuckles as Graff leads him to the dining room.

Later, after they consumed their meal, both are back in the drawing room, sipping back whiskey.

“You know,” Alexander begins, leaning forward to make what he is about to say more personal, “I don’t doubt The Committee treats you beyond well. However, I see it in your eyes. You want more. Don’t you?”

Graff just smirks, “I’m that obvious, am I?” He takes another sip of his drink.

Pierce was good. He had to be to keep blinders on someone like Nick Fury. However, this wasn’t an attempt to undermine Graff’s will. This was a genuine question, teetering on the edge of concern.

Spencer’s family had a long history with Hydra, dating back centuries. Few knew this, of course. Not even The Committee. As far as anyone knew, Hydra was born within the Nazi Party back in the 1940s. However, when the Red Skull separated Hydra from the Nazis and died at the hands of Captain America, a rift formed within what remained of Hydra’s leadership. For some reason, Graff’s grandfather decided to join The Committee that formed after Hydra faked it’s defeat and Hitler’s death.

Hydra would eventually become SHIELD, and the remnants of Hitler’s Nazi Party would become The Committee. The Allies were kind enough to help both groups shuffle around the map with Operation Paperclip, which is how the Graffs and the Wagners became US citizens. The latter established a financial powerbase in the US itself to covertly generate resources for The Committee.

Yet as the decades dragged on, it was clear which group was serious about its goals and which was content to atrophied in the shadows. Spencer grew up on the stories of how glorious Hydra was in its heyday. And when he discovered what had become of the group, he dreamed of returning to Hydra. Where he should have been all along.

Spencer sighs, swirling the alcohol in his glass. “You’re not wrong. The Committee is like a wolf that defanged and declawed itself.” Anger begins to seep into his voice as he recounts his orders concerning TriSyn and Wagner, “They don’t even want me to kill Wagner when he finally fails. I’m an empty threat and the poor bastard doesn’t even know it.” He sets his glass down before the urge to throw it overtakes him. “I should be running that company. I should have more power than I do. The Committee is about as menacing as a wet napkin. It generates and hoards wealth and power but lets that power coagulate in its veins.”

Standing up, Spencer begins to pace. His rising anger needs and outlet and there is no one around for him to take his rage out on. “The Wagners are a perfect distillation of The Committee’s ineptitude. Not just the Wagner’s themselves, but the leadership’s refusal to amputate such a useless leg. Jason gets a pass because of his father’s devotion to ‘the cause.’ Not because he earned it.”

Pierce gives Spencer a knowing nod and a sympathetic smile, “Maybe you should be the clot that finally kills it.”

Spencer stops in his tracks, “What are you offering, Alex?”

“Did your father ever tell you about Project Insight?”

Curiosity drapes over Graff’s face, “He did. Because grandfather wouldn’t shut up about it. It was some pipe dream project Arnim Zola cooked up. A way to mass execute enemies of Hydra.”

A wicked smile spreads over Pierce’s face. “What if I told you it wasn’t a pipe dream any more? That we are very close to making our greatest weapon a reality?”

Eyes widening in excitement, Graff sits back down. He leans forward, a child listening with wonder to his elder. “Are you serious? What do you need from me?”

“I think we can work together to achieve both our dreams, Spencer. And get you back into Hydra, where you belong. But we need the computing power TriSyn has at its disposal. We’ve taxed all we can from SHIELD. We do any more, and we’ll start to raise some suspicion. Fury is in the dark, and I would like to keep him that way. Until it’s time, any how.”

Spencer contemplates Alexander’s dilemma. It makes sense. Despite how embedded Hydra is within SHIELD, if the wrong person sees the right data, it could blow everything. It was a dangerous game Pierce and the other heads of Hydra played. How they’ve stayed hidden from agents of SHIELD who weren’t Hydra was beyond Graff. But he respected the hell out of Hydra for being so daring in its quest to bring order to such a chaotic world.

But the same problem would exist at TriSyn. Jason Wagner may not be the scientist his father was, he was still intelligent. Any deviation of labor and resources within the company would be caught almost as soon as the operation began.

“Wagner would catch on quick. He’s not as dumb as he looks. And unfortunately, I can’t just kill the prick,” Spencer slouches back in his chair. Defeat before the game even began was annoying.

“What if someone from outside the company were to take care of Wagner. As CFO, you could easily slide into his role with him out of the picture.” Pierce relaxed back into his chair, taking another drink.

An idea springs forth in Spencer’s mind. Excitement takes over him as he leans back forward, “Not someone. Something. SHIELD.”

Pierce narrows his eyes at the younger man. The Senator was only suggesting an assassination of the Wagners. Maybe pulled off by John Garrett or Brock Rumlow’s STRIKE team. “What are you planning, Spencer?”

“What if, the CFO of TriSyn turned a bit of state’s evidence over to SHIELD. A half truth to get your people in the door. SHIELD finds what they’ve been pointed at, and they arrest the Wagners. I am, being the ever humble and law-abiding citizen, found innocent during the investigation.”

Cruel laughter pierces the air, Spencer becoming all too happy with himself. “It’s perfect! Just perfect! And the icing on the cake? It would make The Committee too fearful of being exposed. They would withdraw all contact and support from the company, leaving everyone attached to it to fend for themselves! I’ve already seen them do it in similar situations.”

Pierce chuckles at Spencer’s animated enthusiasm. “But,” the head of Hydra interjects, “It would have to be something agents could investigate.”

“Oh, I have the perfect thing. Something that would have made The Committee very happy if Jason was successful with it,” Graff states with glee. Of course, that one project would be perfect. It was so close and personal to Jason. So much so, that even his estranged daughter was somehow a part of it. Its failure infuriated Jason to no end, driving him to bury it deep within the company.

“Well,” Alex motioned for the silver-haired youth to not keep him in suspense.

“Tell me, Senator. Have you ever heard of Project VENOM?”


End file.
